


We're Not Friends

by Steve



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Bickering, Developing Friendships, Gen, episode 5 coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 09:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13633491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Steve
Summary: It starts off barely more than a pissing match.“I’ll keep watch,” says Beau, at the start of each leg of their journey, like she’s convinced they’re bound to be ambushed by highwaymen every time.“I was just about to volunteer,” Molly drawls in response, without fail, the both of them spending the rest of the ride staunchly staring in opposite directions.





	We're Not Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Minor Episode 5 spoilers.
> 
> I just love their continued animosity, and how much these two mirrored each other in this episode especially. Cue belligerent slow burn friendship, please.

It starts off barely more than a pissing match.

“I’ll keep watch,” says Beau, at the start of each leg of their journey, like she’s convinced they’re bound to be ambushed by highwaymen every time.

“I was just about to volunteer,” Molly drawls in response, without fail, the both of them spending the rest of the ride staunchly staring in opposite directions.

“Still a little tender,” Beau would say, after Fjord asks about her bashed-in face again. “I’ll survive. How’s it looking?”

“It’s a marked improvement from what you normally got going on,” says Molly. “You should consider keeping it like this. I so adore it.”

Beau flips him off.

“I can, in fact, swallow a sword,” Molly would say later, shooting Jester his showman’s wink. “So long as it’s not cursed, and is of the right size and shape.”

“Can you also pull out the one shoved up your ass, while you’re at it?” drawls Beau. “Or is that trick just, like, out of the realm of possibility?”

Molly flips  _her_  off.

Then comes the crappy inn after a crappy battle, the two bunk beds, four mattresses, and barely enough standing room for the six of them. Fjord looks like he’s already mentally tabulating which pairs would be most comfortable cuddling at this stage in their not-quite-friendships. Until—

“I’ll take the floor,” says Beau, without argument. Jester is already bouncing happily on one of the lumpy beds, and Caleb beelines to another one, shoulders hunched, almost territorial.

Molly just hums and drops his own equipment on the floor, staking claim and pointedly ignoring Beau's low noise of—surprise, maybe, or indignation.

Fjord’s gaze flits between the two of them. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Guess Nott and I will take the rest of the beds, then. Not like I'm complainin’.”

Fine.

An hour and many drinks later, Molly trudges back into the now-dark room and immediately trips over a large, warm lump.

“Ouch!” hisses the lump from beneath him. “Fuck you, get off'a me.”

A sharp shove, and Molly’s spilled onto the hard ground. So Beau was serious about sleeping on the floor. He’s face-to-face now with her sharp glare, but he doubts her human eyes can see anything in this light. That doesn’t stop her from glowering at him, though.

The room has barely enough space for the four beds crammed inside. With the both of them on the floor, they might as well be squeezed together on one of the tiny mattresses. Beau’s already balled herself up like a cat, head laid on a pile of clothes like a makeshift pillow. She didn’t even bother to set up a bedroll. There probably wouldn’t have been space for it anyway.

“Shit. Can you, like, move farther away?” she grouses, shoving at his shoulder this time. “I can feel you  _breathing_ on me.”

“Trust me, darling,” says Molly, “I am enjoying this level of proximity even less than you are. Your face is hardly the last thing I want to see before falling asleep.”

“Well, I was here first.”

She’s got a point, as petty as it is. He starts to drag himself up. Beau doesn’t move or say anything when he steps over her body. As he’s fumbling with the doorknob, though, a hand shoots out and grabs his ankle.

“ _What the shit_ ,” he hisses, just barely pushing back a shriek of surprise.

“The fuck do you think you’re going,” says Beau.

“Back to the bar. I’m not about to crawl into bed with Caleb or Jester, thank you very much.”

“You’re not sleeping out there. You’ll get mugged. You and your shiny new sixty gold pieces.”

“Fuck off,” he says eloquently. He gives his leg a good shake, trying to escape her grasp and hopefully step on some of her fingers.

A violent tug, and Molly’s yanked back to the floor, Beau’s torso somewhat breaking his fall so he doesn’t hit his head and die. She shoves him off of her again, and he’s back at his old spot on the floor, Beau’s body and baleful glare between him and the door.

They both stay silent, frozen for a moment, waiting for the rest of the group to wake up from the commotion. Nobody stirs.

“What the shit,” he repeats, blinking at the ceiling. “You could have killed me.”

“You’re sloshed,” she accuses.

“And half-dead as it is. Looking to finish the job?”

“I wish,” she mutters.

Molly sighs, resigning himself to the present circumstances. He’s exhausted, drunk, beat to shit, and his little patch of floor space is starting to feel awfully soft. There’s just the matter of that one annoyance lying adjacent to him, like a blister on the sole of his foot, unable to just let him be.

“Why do you care if I get mugged anyway,” he mumbles, dimly aware of how petulant he sounds.

“I don’t,” she hisses immediately. “I don’t care.”

“Sure. Fine.”

“I just...” Beau huffs and closes her eyes, like she can’t bear to even look in his direction. “Ugh. You know, this is kind of a  _group_  thing now, and I guess you’re kind of in this  _group_  and I’m kind of in this  _group._  Which means we’re, like... co... group... people.”

“Co-group people.”

“Shut up.” Her eyes peel open to glare at him again. “I just mean, if anyone’s gonna mug you, it should be me. I deserve it.”

“You deserve the gold, or the pleasure of slitting my throat?”

“Both,” she says, grinning now. A pause. “I mean, I wouldn’t kill you, though. I’d just leave you for dead on the side of the road or something.”

“How magnanimous,” he remarks.

Beau just smirks, and her eyes close again like she might finally go back to sleep.

Mollymauk could kill her, he’s pretty sure. She may be fast, but she’s only a human, in the end. A small, young, and relatively inexperienced one, at that.

But they’re co-group people.

He supposes, after everything, that’s as fair an assessment as they could reach. They’re not friends or even teammates, at this point. They’re just the two idiots who volunteered to sleep on the floor.  _Why them_ , he thinks. Why are the two of them even sticking around, drawing the short end on sleeping arrangements, offering to keep watch on the cart every day, and risking their necks for goblins who set themselves on fire? Caleb has Nott; Jester has Fjord; and then there’s him and Beauregard, strangers buzzing around at the edges of this little unit. Like they’re both unsure whether they should be trying to wedge their way inside, or getting ready to bolt at any second.

“Maybe you’re not the only one running from something,” Beau mumbles, eyes still shut. “Or searching for it.”

Molly’s not sure how much he rambled aloud, or if Beau just guessed the direction of his thoughts. Regardless, he lets his eyes fall shut too. It actually  _is_ pretty disgusting to see the yellow-purple patches of Beau’s bruised face up close. Exhaustion overtakes him.

“I still don’t like you,” he whispers, an afterthought.

“I still don’t trust you,” she flings back.

“Your bangles are tacky.”

“Your whole head literally jingles.”

“That’s not an insult.”

“Oh, trust me, it is.” 

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE,” comes Fjord’s voice at last. “ _Some of us are trying to sleep._ ”

The next morning, after they sort out matters with Bryce, the group heads out again, their horse at least looking much better for the wear.

As usual, eyes already on the road, Beau says, “I’ll keep watch.”

“Same,” says Molly simply, perched on the opposite end of the cart. They don’t make eye contact, or say anything more.

It’s something, for now.


End file.
